Only Images
by MahliaLily
Summary: Imagine a world in which there is no time. Only images." Inspired by Alan Lightman's novel "Einstein's Dreams." A Lit.


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**Only Images**

_A worn book lying on a table beside a dim lamp._

He was smoking. 

She knew it almost before she walked in the door. The unmistakable, bitter scent drifted out to meet her, embracing her like an old, forgotten friend. She tried to hold her breath, but her lungs contracted as if to force her to inhale. She gasped and immediately felt the burn of the smoke as it wound past her lips and down her throat. The dull ache started.

She pulled her robe tighter and tied the sash around her waist – wasting time, delaying the inevitable. The terrycloth that once felt soft against her skin now prickled. She resisted the urge to throw it off. Instead she smoothed her hands down the front, felt the pieces of her bikini balled up in the pockets. 

Standing in place just inside the door, she ran her hands through her wet hair. Drops of ocean rained down, slightly darkening the carpet where they landed. She felt her lips, slightly swollen from his desperate kisses. Her fingertips tasted like salt. On quiet feet, she walked through the room – following the smoke like breadcrumbs in a forest.

She reached the door. It was half open, both a warning and an invitation. She peered inside. The room danced in shadows, illuminated only by the lamp on the bedside table, glowing on its dimmest setting. Her eyes drifted to the paperback beside it. Its corners were softened and dulled, helpless against the oils of constant touch. Lines slightly cracked the spine from repeated bending and folding. She couldn't see the title, but it didn't matter. It was one of his books, and they all looked this way. Each one was interchangeable with the next.

She felt his eyes on her, and she looked at last. He was reclining on the bed, his legs stretched out before him. The sheets were soaked where he lay; he hadn't even bothered to dry off. His dripping swim trunks were plastered against his body. She wondered why he wasn't shivering. She met his gaze, unprepared for the sadness and regret she saw. Tears sprang to her eyes, and without another thought, she hurried to the bed and crawled in beside him.

Her arms wrapped around his waist. Her head burrowed into the crook of his neck. With a deep sigh, he stubbed his cigarette out in the empty ashtray and pulled her closer. Her tears mixed with the ocean as she cried.

_The white on water as a wave breaks, blown by wind._

Outside, the waves crashed against the shore as they finally relinquished control to the storm that had been brewing in the distance. Thunder crashed, the dim light went out with a sizzle, and she pulled his mouth to hers.

His lips trailed across the curve of her cheek, over the bridge of her nose, against her closed eyelids, into her hair. 

She let his body close over hers as he claimed her lips again. His hands drifted inside her robe and brushed across her flushed skin. She opened her eyes, but in the complete darkness, she couldn't see him. Shutting them again, her fingers entwined with his, saying what she needed to say. It stung when he shifted. Outside, the waves crashed as they moved together.

His labored breaths came out in small gasps. She tasted the smell of ash on her lips. He ran his hand into the hair behind her ear and kissed her. She inhaled the flavor of smoke.

The air shifted, and the winds died down. He breathed softly and easily beside her. The waves outside lapped gently against the sand.

She stood and gathered her robe from the floor, pulling it around her again. As she left the room, the smoke followed her, painted on her skin and in each tendril of her hair. 

Her legs folded beneath her easily as she sat on the couch and waited. 

Her eyes flashed to his when he entered the room, the sheet wrapped haphazardly around his waist. She smiled at the sight of his disheveled hair and tired eyes. He answered with a smirk and walked across the room with unhurried steps. As he sat beside her, she reached out for his hand, noticed the way his olive skin contrasted with the pale white of hers. Pulling it around her, she lay down, resting her head in his lap. Hand-in-hand, they quietly waited, as their time ran out.

_A woman lying on her couch with wet hair, holding the hand of a man she will never see again.___


End file.
